A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  “You walked from Bari? All the way to northern Italy?” The bewilderment on his face made me smile. It didn’t sound extraordinary to me at all. Somewhere deep inside of me an impenetrable core existed, a force of will that would never allow me to surrender, to be swallowed up by despair. I had always been aware of it.

  “It sounds crazy now but it was easy at the time…I guess we don’t know what we’re capable of until tested.” I bent forward and caressed his jaw, ran a finger down the gentle slope of his nose, kissed the tiny scar on his top lip. His lips parted and a soft sigh slipped out. “Your bath awaits you, your Highness.”

  His eyes were filled with an indescribable emotion. I stared back as something big passed between us, something meaningful. I love you, I thought. And this time, I didn’t look away.

  * * *

  Once he was in the tub, I placed a rolled towel at one end so he could rest his head back. He hadn’t shaved in four days and his dark golden scruff had fully grown in. If this was a Victorian melodrama, I’d say he looked like a disreputable rake––and I must admit, outrageously sexy for a man who’d recently been to hell and back.

  “Would you like me to shave you?”

  His lashes lifted lazily. “Depends where,” he answered with a slow grin.

  “You must be feeling better. I see your wicked sense of humor is back. I vote for leaving the scruff…I like it.”

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction, mischief lurking in his expressive eyes. “If you like it, then it stays.”

  After soaking the sponge with bath gel, I sat on the edge of the tub and began washing him. His head fell back in surrender. The fatigue stamped on his face softened, a content expression growing on his face as I lathered his arms, his shoulders, and in between each finger before moving on to his chest and corrugated abdomen. I tipped him forward and washed his back, the nape of his neck, down his legs and toes. When I skimmed the sponge between his thighs and over his sex, I heard him moan. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when his penis stood erect underwater; evidence of the man’s considerable virility.

  “How could you possibly get hard at a time like this?”

  Sensual creature that he was, a lazy smile curved his lips. I dropped the sponge and poured more gel on my hands. A new alertness entered his eyes as I grabbed his erection firmly at the base and began stroking him, pressing my thumb on the ridge under the crown. His eyelids turned heavy, his breathing harsh. His grip on the edge of the tub tightened.

  Lost in arousal, he was simply stunning. I loved watching him lose control. It was always the other way around. I was always the one moaning and begging––at his mercy. I dipped my other hand below the water and squeezed his sac. Groaning loudly, he arched into my hands, pumping his hips. I kept stroking him until he climaxed and a primal cry from somewhere deep and dark erupted out of him. He sounded wounded, full of pained emotion.

  He was just a man after all, often in control and dominating but not impervious. It was easy to forget when confronted with the beautiful ruse. And I was so caught up in my own problems that I hadn’t stopped to consider how deep his pain still ran. He had lost a woman he loved very much.

  Grabbing my hand, he placed it on his chest and covered it with his own. The heavy thumping under my palm felt like I held his heart in my hand. My gaze traveled up to his solemn eyes.

  “Thank you…I…” he murmured, struggling for words. “Thank you.”

  I swallowed the lump of love and sympathy stuck in my throat. “You don’t have to thank me. I want to do this for you.” And then he pulled me down for a sweet, heartfelt kiss.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The shrill of the kitchen phone interrupted my daydreaming. Mrs. Arnaud turned off the kitchen sink and dried her wet hands on her embroidered apron.

  “Allo,” she answered in French, switching to English immediately afterwards.

  My nails were bright green from cracking open pea pods and robbing them of their carefully protected cargo. I inspected the stain that seemed determined to stay under my fingernails, undiminished by a vigorous scrubbing.

  “Vera, it’s for you.”

  My head snapped up. Anxiously, I reached for the phone.

  “Vera?” Emilia’s voice was shaky, weak.

  “Emilia, what’s wrong?!”

  “Can you come? I need you.”

  “Give me your address.” Glancing up at the antique clock on the wall, I said, “It should only take me an hour by taxi.”

  “Okay…thank you,” she responded with an unsteady sigh in between each word.

  “See you soon, Em.”

  Her address in Eaux-Vives on the Rive Gauche had me suspecting that I was probably meeting her at Yuri’s apartment. She couldn’t possibly afford the rent in that neighborhood on her inconsistent salary. Mrs. Arnaud insisted that Theo drive me instead of calling a taxi. I didn’t have time to debate the matter and agreed.

  Theo’s car made slow progress down the country roads. I stared out the window at the passing scenery. Dusk fell reluctantly, airbrushing the sky a pretty ombre from orange to lavender before it descended into darkness.

  In my rush to get to Emilia, I hadn’t mentioned it to Sebastian that I was going out. I had every intension of sending him an email when I ran to my room to change, but something stopped me. Because what would that say about us? That we had some kind of obligation to each other? It was a slippery slope.

  By the time we pulled up to the address, it was already late. My argument with Theo, who insisted on coming back later to pick me up, took up another fifteen minutes. I had no idea what awaited me, and I didn’t want him driving late at night when he had to be at work at five in the morning.

  Her building was located on a beautiful tree lined street, seated in between quaint shops and trendy cafés. I scanned the directory and rang the button next to a familiar name. Yuri Skilenski. After she buzzed me in, I climbed the steps to the second floor with my heart thumping loudly, dreading what I would find on the other side of the steel door. The door opened abruptly.

  It only took a few seconds to assess the bloody lip, the messy hair, the ruddy cheeks. Fresh tears slipped down her face. I wrapped her gently in my arms, unsure if there were any broken bones, and she leaned on me, her knees giving out. I rubbed her thin back as I kicked the door shut. Small sobbing sounds burst out of her in between choppy breaths. I pulled away only long enough to take a more thorough inventory of her injuries.

  “Emilia, where are you hurt?”

  She dipped her head and turned away in embarrassment. Lifting her cotton shirt slowly, she revealed a cluster of bruises on her ribs. I touched the swollen, darkening mark gingerly, and stopped when she winced.

  “It looks like you may have a cracked rib.”

  “Can you do something for it?” she asked softly, watching me with sad, worried eyes.

  “Not really. You should x-ray it to make sure. But it has to heal on its own. It takes time.”

  “What about pain medication?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Painkillers and distraught people generally aren’t a good mix.

  “The hospital could probably prescribe them, but you could reinjure yourself more easily by dulling the pain.”

  Her shoulders slumping in disappointment, she walked away from me and sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands.

  I followed her into the apartment. It was expensively decorated in modern Italian furniture. Mostly in white––and about as cozy as the inside of a refrigerator. Sitting in the chair next to her, I took hold of her hand and squeezed it in comfort.

  “Emilia, where is he now? Will he be coming home soon?”

  “No. He’ll be at the club all night.” She grimaced, pain tugging at her side.

  “Let’s put something on that,” I told her.

  In the freezer, my search for a cold pack turned up a bag of frozen peas instead.

  “Is this the first time? Here place these on your ribs.” She shook her
head and winced when the cold hit her skin. I was afraid of that––a deep sigh rose up my throat. “What happened?”

  Her anxious gaze darted away from mine. “We had a fight…about one of the girls at the club. I think he’s sleeping with her.”

  Again, no surprise there. I needed to handle the confession with care and fought the urge to rail, knowing her proclivity to argue to her very last breath if she felt cornered.

  “He’s hurt you before––” I stated very gently. “He’ll do it again.”

  “Maybe.” My heart broke for her. She sounded so small, belittled. “But I love him,” she added, as if that was all the justification that was necessary.

  How could I respond to that? I was in love, too. I was in an untenable situation, also. I wouldn’t ever allow a man to lay a hand on me, though I could sympathize. In my own way, love made me weak.

  “I understand you better than you think.” I rubbed the space in between by brows where all my heavy thoughts seemed to settle lately. Her head whipped around and her pale green eyes searched mine. “I’m in love with my employer.” I rolled my eyes and hid my face in my hands. “What a ugly cliché, right? The housekeeper has an affair with her boss.” Her mouth fell open––literally fell open. “I’ve shocked you? Well, I’ve shocked myself.”

  “It’s just that…it’s just…you always do the right thing. Nothing ever seems to distract you,” she stated, her tone incredulous.

  “I assure you, I’m distracted.”

  “How did it happen?!” she asked, smiling, the sadness momentarily replaced by curiosity.

  “I’m human, Em. I’m not sure how. We were awful to each other at first––maybe because we both felt it and were scared of where it would lead.” I shrugged at the admission, the truth so clear in hindsight.

  “Sebastian Horn is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world…and he’s in love with you!”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m in love with him.”

  Her smile faltered. “Oh…do you think he is?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It can’t go anywhere. I could never tell him about my past. I can’t involve him in any of that.”

  “Maybe he could help?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I see.”

  “Come back with me, Emi. Let’s pack your things and leave here. He’s the most generous person I’ve ever met. I’m sure he would let you stay at the house until you can get a place of your own.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I love him and I know you think he’s trash, but you don’t know him like I do.”

  Classic battered woman syndrome.

  “And what about the next time? When he breaks your arm or your face, and you can’t work?” It came out harsher than I intended, my concern for her overruling my intention to handle the matter delicately. She stood up, her face hardening into an implacable mask.

  “Thank you for coming, Vera, but I can handle this on my own.”

  “Emi, I didn’t mean––I’m really worried about you.”

  “It’s fine,” she interrupted. “I’ll go to a clinic tomorrow and see about getting an x-ray. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks. Maybe we can meet for lunch.”

  I nodded. It was useless arguing. She was as stubborn as an ox when she was like this. As we stood hugging at the door, I made her promise to call me as soon as she saw a doctor.

  * * *

  I took a taxi back to the estate. It was one by the time it pulled up to the front door. On the front steps, Gideon Hirsch stood with his arms crossed in front of him looking like the instrument of God’s vengeance.

  “I thought I told you to let us know when you’re leaving the premises?”

  Wonderful. Being scolded like an errant child by the security detail was a new low.

  “I was in a hurry. I didn’t think it mattered since Theo drove me.”

  “Sebastian was worried.” As if that required no further explanation. Truth was, I understood the subtext perfectly. “It matters––don’t do it again,” he added with a cold, hard look in his eyes and stalked off.

  I was definitely not Gideon’s favorite person. I’m not sure he trusted me. Clever man.

  I padded silently up the marble staircase and down the hall towards Sebastian’s bedroom. I figured I might as well get all the scolding out of the way. His door was cracked open, a slice of faint light pouring out. I pushed it open wider and quietly stepped inside. He sat slumped down in his stuffed chair next to the empty, dark fireplace. His head was tipped back on the seat cushion, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The warm, dim light of the lamp outlined his perfect profile in gold. An empty bottle dangled carelessly from his large hand, over the armrest. Oh, crap…

  His head swiveled towards me at the clicking sound of the door closing. At first, he was very still, his expression blank. I watched his mind registering my presence. It took only a minute for the storm to gather in his eyes and skewer me with out-and-out fury. My heart skipped a full beat. I squirmed under his heated gaze.

  “You’re back.” His voice was clipped. He didn’t sound drunk at all, though decidedly mad.

  I love you. I did. I loved him madly. I just couldn’t say it.

  I marshaled my strength and walked over to him, his fiery eyes following me the entire distance. His chest rose and fell in deep, agitated breaths. He hadn’t had a drink in weeks. I should have been scared, petrified, to find myself alone with him in such an unpredictable state, and yet I knew he would never do anything to hurt me intentionally. He’d more likely hurt himself.

  “At least I got two words out of you. When you’re stewing about something, you turn monosyllabic.”

  “Oh I have plenty of words for you,” he growled, hostility rippling off of him.

  I walked over to him and gently took the bottle out of his hand. Macallan 39.

  “This will be an expensive hangover.”

  Moving with remarkable speed, he trapped me between the unyielding solid mass of his chest and the cold wall in seconds. I could feel the raging beat of his heart through my clothes. His hands curved around my skull, gripped my hair tightly, and held me still for a vicious kiss. Instinctively, I knew yielding completely was the only way to get through to him, to bring him back to rational thought. When he realized I wasn’t resisting his assault, his touch gentled, his lips softened. Even though the anger and desperation remained.

  I reached up and cupped his face, stroked him, soothing the wildness away. He pressed his cheek into my palm. His gaze was filled with a mix of apprehension, fear, and longing. I kept petting his stiff shoulders, his chest, until his frown eased, until he shivered and held me close––his steel-hard shaft pressed between us.

  “Where were you?”

  “Geneva. I went to see my friend, Emilia. She needed me.”

  He exhaled a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have no way of reaching you––and you didn’t tell Gideon!”

  That’s when it hit me, why I hadn’t told him. I had purposely left without a word to see exactly what kind of a reaction I would get. What a coward I was, playing games with his feelings instead of confessing mine. He’d been honest with me from the start. Shame and regret rolled up on me quickly as I stared into his wounded eyes.

  He gathered me in his arms, picking me up with ease, and threw me on the bed. His eyes reflected a turbulent mix of emotions, transforming like a mood ring from amber to green and back again. Without another word, he undressed me painstakingly, undressed himself and joined me on the bed. Starting at my feet, he placed delicate butterfly kisses on the insides of my ankles, charting a course up my thigh, navigating around my navel, and further north until he reached my hairline. I was drunk on lust and the sweet sensation of his mouth worshiping my body. I wanted to touch him, give him back the pleasure he gave me. As I reached for him, he clasped by wrists and brought them over my head.

  “Keep them there,” he ordered. A drawer banged shut. I opened my eyes and realized tha
t he had tied a silk scarf around one wrist, worked it around the slender post of his mahogany bed, and was now securing my other wrist. My mother’s scarf––the one I had left in the kitchen. My eyes flew to his. His razor sharp stare dared me to argue. I didn’t. This was my apology to him. I couldn’t put it in words. All I could do was surrender my body to him without reserve. I love you. I’m sorry for worrying you.

  When he finished securing the knot, he reared up and studied his work. I shivered under his intense scrutiny, an erotic flush staining my pale skin. His nostrils flared and a dark, predatory glint entered his eyes. He ran his large hands assertively up and down my body, branding me with blazing heat and ownership.

  God, I loved this man. I loved him fiercely, with all my heart. That well of emotion ran so deep in me that I still hadn’t reached the bottom of it. It had been so different with Aleksander. My love for him had been mild mannered, economical. My love for Sebastian was a wild thing––beautiful and rare, and totally unmanageable.

  He orchestrated an assault on my senses with the tactical dexterity of a five star general, breaking me down a little at a time with his tongue and his hands and his teeth. He moved lower, circling around my sex and never quite reaching it. A mist of nervous sweat covered me from head to toe. I writhed and strained against the silk bindings. Widening my legs, I tried to urge him closer but he ignored me. His tongue grazed my sweet spot and I screamed in encouragement. My toes flexed, my body bucked off the bed, chasing the feeling. My need was so acute that begging was not beneath me.

  “Sebastian, please.”

  “Quiet.” He sounded detached, chilly––something was off. He continued torturing me, caressing, dipping inside, quickly retreating when he realized I was building. I screamed in protest and gripped my knees together.

  “I need you, please, please, please. I need you now,” I panted.